England, England by Julian Barnes (Picador, £6.99 in UK)

Here is yet another of those so-clever-it-hurts English novels which is more concerned with exposing the state of the nation than it is with story or character. At its core is the thesis that Mother England is a victim of her past, her culture and her greedy, depraved present. Enter crazed tycoon Jack Pitman who decides to manufacture the ultimate theme park, a replica England complete with Robin Hood, the Royal Family and a cast of thousands - all contained on the Isle of Wight. There is no disputing that Barnes, who has written two good novels, Flaubert's Parrot (1984) and the wartime elegy Staring at the Sun (1986) is one of the sharpest literary journalist-cum-commentators about and can claim a sophisticated Europeanised critical intelligence, so why did he write this predictable, barbed Booker also-ran? After many tediously knowing pranks and a relentless sending-up of the nation, he then adopts a philosophical tone and ponders serious issues: time and loss, history and memory, the authentic versus the fake, and identity. Adored by the English literary establishment, it remains a poor second best to Christopher Hope's satire In Darkest England (1986).